


heaven help a fool who falls in love

by HopeNight



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), F/M, Future Fic, POV Outsider, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 14:11:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14058696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeNight/pseuds/HopeNight
Summary: Miguel’s gone.Miguel has been taken by askeleton.Finally, her brain makes the final connection. The story Miguel told her a few short months ago blossoms forth in her mind.Miguel was kidnapped by Ernesto de la Cruz.In which Miguel's new fiancée (of all of ten minutes) has to go and rescue him from the Land of Dead following a kidnapping by a long dead man. Love's a funny thing. Happily ever afters are earned. Sometimes the Living have to deal with the consequences being Forgotten just as much as the dead.





	heaven help a fool who falls in love

**Author's Note:**

> Hey _Coco_ fandom! 
> 
> So honestly the first sentences kind of just came into my head like on Friday, next thing I know I have about ten thousand words written. I was like 'might as well finish it' and here we are. I did a decent amount of research, stared at a lot of pictures of Santa Cecilia, and tried to make Ophelia feel real and grounded. 
> 
> Events take place ten years after the epilogue, eleven after the events of the film. Miguel is twenty-three and utterly ridiculous. 
> 
> Title (and character name) comes from The Lumineers song. Mainly because it came on when I first started writing the story and took it as a sign. 
> 
> Enjoy!

In a swirl of cempazúchitl petals, her fiancé for all of ten minutes disappears. The cracked face of his skeleton captor split into a maddening grin as they disappear. It takes a moment for Ophelia’s brain to catch up to the situation at hand.

Miguel’s gone.

Miguel has been taken by a _skeleton_.

Finally, her brain makes the final connection. The story Miguel told her a few short months ago blossoms forth in her mind.

Miguel was kidnapped by Ernesto de la Cruz.

With her brain finally caught up to what she just witnessed, adrenaline takes over. Terror and white-hot rage race through her veins.

She needs to help Miguel. Do the dead know he’s been taken?

Ophelia breathes deeply.

This…this…this _monster_ may have grabbed Miguel, but it wasn’t going to be for long.

She knows where they were going. She has a couple ways to get there. (She’d like to get there without being cursed though.)

“Dante,” she commands. The normally affable Xolo dog appears almost instantaneously by her side with his lips pulled back in a snarl at the place where Miguel was grabbed.

“Dante,” she repeats more firmly.

This time the dog focuses on her.

She takes another deep breath, tries to stop the trembling in her hand.

“I need to go to the Land of the Dead.”

Ophelia clenches her fist to stop the trembling. Fire roars through her veins.

“Can you show me the way, boy? Without getting cursed?”

Dante stares at her for a moment before trotting over and licking her clenched hand in assent.

“Let’s go save Miguel.”

Dante barks and runs off. 

Ophelia turns and follows, determination in every step.

* * *

She meets Miguel at some kind of “industry event” in Los Angeles when they are both twenty. She’s a dancer with a decently popular YouTube channel, relatively on the bottom of the food chain. He’s perhaps the most famous person there. It was, as Miguel claims to Ophelia’s eye rolling, love at first sight.

The de la Cruz controversy, as it’s known, is almost eight years old by this point. It’s a fascinating case for those who study the entertainment industry. Ophelia is certain that there has to be one doctoral thesis out there on how the de la Cruz controversy dovetails with the Me Too movement. While he was beloved in Mexico, he was known the world over. One of Ophelia’s foster mothers adored “Remember Me”. (Sometimes, she wonders if the woman still does.)

Comparisons and studies aside, it was a wild story that crossed worldly borders. Everyone loves a tragedy, a fall from grace, and a scandal. This was all that and more. Miguel Rivera would have remained famous for exposing it. For being related to one of the greatest musical geniuses of all time.

The fact that the great-great grandson of Héctor Rivera was a genuinely talented musician in his own right? It was a big deal. Even though he played the famous Mariachi Square of Santa Ceiclia since he was twelve, he didn’t fully burst onto the scene until five years after the revelations drop. 

Miguel releases his first album at seventeen through an indie label that no one heard of at the time. (Though they certainly know the label when Ophelia and Miguel meet.) He’s immediately held as a talent to watch. Critics around the world praise his combination of classic Mexican music styles mixed with a modern flair. He wins awards. He tours around the world. He is sweet, personable and kind-hearted in interviews. 

His second album is released when he is nineteen. It has been out a few months when they meet at the “industry event”. It’s bigger than his first. Ophelia is a fan of Miguel’s though not a groupie. She likes the albums. She’s choreographed dances to her two favorite songs for her YouTube channel.

She also, however, knows about meeting idols. You shouldn’t. Though she wouldn’t call him her idol. Not really.

From her vantage point at the bar, she watches him. Her manager insists that she go to these parties. Ophelia is never comfortable in such large groups. She speaks with her body, but words are more difficult to her. They stick in her throat. She is often uncertain, fearful that the wrong thing would leave her alone. 

In some foster homes, saying the wrong thing made things worse. She was always, always so scared of saying the wrong thing and losing what she’s built. So her fear was not entirely unfounded. 

Still, she watches Miguel. He appears to be just as advertised personality wise. He’s friendly and warm to everyone. He shakes hands, gives back-slapping hugs, asks about families and pets and work. He seems to have a way about making each person feel special. Ophelia almost envies how easy it seems for Miguel to work the room. People smile and laugh with him. 

Ophelia attempts a couple times to gather her courage to go over and talk to him. Even if he turns out to be a complete ass, he wouldn’t be in the moment. Although he truly acts like one of those rare genuine individuals. 

While she debates with herself, he feels her eyes on him. He looks up. His eyes meet hers. Her stomach flips.

Like Miguel will say in the future, it’s love at first sight. Ophelia rolls her eyes but smiles. Looking back on it, it was love at first sight for her.

Of course, at the time, she believes its indigestion from one too many canapes.

She digs around in her purse to find her roll of antacids when he surprises her.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Ophelia startles. Her bag drops on the floor and its guts spill out. In the moment, she’s not sure who is more surprised: her or Miguel.

“Lo siento,” he blurts out. He kneels down on the grounds and grabs some of her stuff. 

“No. It’s okay. I was…I wasn’t expecting anyone to come over. Um…No. Here let me.”

She gathers up the rest of her stuff with him, putting it in her bag.

“I really need to clean this out,” Ophelia mutters, looking at handful of receipts. 

“You should see my backpack,” Miguel replies with a smile. “It drives my mama crazy.” 

He clears his throat. When he speaks, it’s a higher more feminine pitch, “Miguelito, I swear that you keep your recording studio so much more clean than your own bedroom. How is that possible?” 

Ophelia laughs a little, shoving the rest of her things in her bag. She holds the pack of antacids in her hand. 

Up close, Miguel is not classically handsome. He’s attractive, yes. His face has a lot of personality, expressive. His hair is long and messy, half held back in a ponytail. His grin is warm and friendly.

Ophelia finds herself smiling back.

“Miguel Rivera,” says the most famous person in the room. He holds out his hand for Ophelia to shake.

“Ophelia Smith,” she says, holding out the hand with the antacids in it. 

Miguel looks at them for a moment. 

“Gracias?” 

She looks down and groans, shoving them into her pocket. With her now free hand, she shakes Miguel’s.

“Sorry. Sorry. Lo siento. I…God I’m such a mess. My stomach started to bother me. I don’t think those canapes or whatever we’re supposed to call them agreed with me and…that’s too much information.”

He smiles at her rambling.

“Would you like to get some fresh air then?” He gestures to the empty balcony. “It may help.”

He holds out a hand. She stares at it for a moment.

For an instant the part of herself that’s always been drilled to be careful around men she doesn’t know well wars with…a desire to get to know him better.

Ophelia bites her lip and takes his hand. 

The two of them disappear onto the balcony. That’s where they stay for the rest of the night.

* * *

Ophelia pulls her hood up as she follows Dante. Technically, the hoodie she’s wearing is Miguel’s. Ever the gentleman, he gave it to her shortly before he was taken because she thought she looked cold. It’s long enough in the arms to hide her hands. Her painted face (courtesy of Coco who says that she has to wear it for her first Dia de los Murteos with the family) will handle the rest.

So she hopes.

Dante leads her down the petal paths. The strewn flowers stir with each step she takes.

She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She doesn’t even know if she’s doing the right thing. Maybe Miguel’s family on the other side already knows. If they knew, then Dante wouldn’t be doing this, right?

She wishes she knew the rules better. She doesn’t want to steal from Miguel’s family or from the dead. She doesn’t want to be cursed like Miguel was when he was a boy.

All she wants to do is bring him _home_.

Eventually, Dante leads her to a cliff’s edge. Without breaking stride, the dog walks off the cliff and disappears. Ophelia stares for a moment at where the dog vanished. He didn’t fall, just…

Ophelia bites her lips. Common sense wars against the fact that she loves Miguel.

Dante pokes his head back. It’s a wholly ridiculous sight to behold with it just floating there. A half-hysterical laugh burst forth from her mouth. Dante then barks at her, which centers her again.

Ophelia straightens her spine and takes the final steps to the cliff’s edge. She breathes in deeply.

She prays. To who or to what? She doesn’t know.

_Please. Let me save him. Let me bring Miguel home in one piece. Let me…let me save him._

With that desire in her heart to save him, she steps forward into open air. Her foot meets something solid and soft when it lands. The scent of cempazúchitl fills the air.

Ophelia opens her eyes.

* * *

About two months into dating, Ophelia knows the most important part of Miguel is his connection to his family. Pictures line the bungalow that he lives in. He adores his family, treats them well. Most of the time, he records in Santa Cecilia He splits his time between there and Los Angeles. His cousin, Rosa, is his agent. In one of his music videos, it’s just his family. All of them celebrating and laughing and…it’s lovely.

They look so lovely and wonderful and _close_. They look like the kind of family that Ophelia prayed would take her in. People that will love her and drive her crazy all at once.

When Miguel is in California, he calls them daily. He asks about their shoemaking business, about gossip around town, about the little ebbs and flows of life. Once a week, they gather around a computer and Skype him.

Miguel is loyal and good to them. He has a college fund set up for his little sister and his younger cousins. He donates money to the town for a variety of projects.

“I have more than I know what to do with,” he tells her. “Might as well help those I care about.”

It’s a strange situation for Ophelia, being with Miguel. The fame part, she deals with. Miguel is kind of boring to the paparazzi. Their favorite dates are sunning on a beach, dipping their toes into the water. Miguel will play for her on his guitar. He coaxes her to dance for him with her toes kicking up the sand.

The family part is the strangest for her though. She tells him her sob story early on in the relationship. Ophelia firmly believes in putting her cards on the table from the get go. She tells them that she was abandoned. Smith is the name that some judge assigned her when she wasn’t adopted. Ophelia came from one of the doctors or whatever who found her. It was better than Baby Jane Doe.

She bounced from foster home to foster home growing up. She couldn’t really say why no one took her in permanently. They just didn’t. She doesn’t know her heritage or anything. She keeps thinking of getting one of those DNA tests, but she can never quite bring herself to do so.

Even now, she can’t call her friends her family. They’re her friends. They care about her. She cares about them. They have their own families and what comes with it.

She worries that it will become an issue between Miguel and her. If his family hates her, then she’s pretty sure that’s it. He cares about his family and what they think. He loves them. She doesn’t want to become something that tears them apart. Then she berates herself for worrying about that. They’ve only been dating for three months. She feels utterly ridiculous for thinking such things.

Ophelia doesn’t know if it will last.

“Am I being stupid?” she asks her stuffed wolf plush, Remus, after spilling out her concerns. Her one constant companion in life is stuffed wolf that one of her foster families gave her first Christmas.

Remus doesn’t answer of course, just stares at her with glass eyes.

Ophelia glares at him.

“You’re no help.”

When they hit month four, Miguel returns back to L.A. from a trip home. Ophelia comes over to cook one of the six things she can cook really well as a welcome back dinner. Miguel’s on the phone with his Abeula when she arrives.

He flashes an utterly exasperated smile. 

“Abeulita, I don’t know. Hang on. She just arrived. You can ask her yourself.”

He holds out the phone. 

“My Abeulita wants to talk with you.” 

She is fluent in Spanish, albeit in the stiff and overly formal way you learn in school. It was one of the first things Miguel learns about her. 

“Okay?” Ophelia says staring at the phone like it’s a bomb. 

“Excellent. You can answer her question.” 

“About?” 

“Your favorite foods. My family wants you to come home for Christmas.” 

“Huh?” 

Miguel looks at her in concern, “I told them you didn’t have plans. So they’re offering. They already love you. Probably from how much I talk about you. I mean if you don’t, I understand. We should have talked about it more. I-”

“No! No. I don’t have any plans. If you’re sure it’s okay,” she admits shyly. 

“Abeulita doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” he says with a bright smile and kiss on the cheek. That’s all the answer she needs apparently. 

Ophelia stands in the doorway, a little off-kilter, before putting the phone to her ear to talk to her boyfriend’s grandmother. In her chest, something warm bubbles up. 

She chalks it up to heartburn. 

* * *

For the first time, she wishes that this wasn’t her first Dia de los Muertos with Miguel’s family. She didn’t exactly avoid the holiday per se. Okay, maybe she did. It was…complicated, even with her not quite but kind of a test run last year aside. Still this was her first time celebrating the holiday. As she and Dante approach the end of the bridge, she realizes she’s out of her depth.

Technically, she knew that she was already out of her depth the moment Miguel was kidnapped. But here, in the Land of Dead, it really hit her.

Even though Miguel told her his story, Ophelia is still awed at the beautiful, vibrant city that sprawls before her and feels like throwing up. It hits her how totally out of her depth she is in this moment.

Who knows if she can even save Miguel from de la Cruz? What if he dies or something even worse than death? Is there something worse than death in the land of the dead? Ophelia really doesn’t want to act out her own private _Corpse Bride_.

She curls her fists in the sleeves of Miguel’s hoodie, feels her new engagement ring bite briefly into her skin. It centers her for a moment, brings her mind to the task at hand. 

Ophelia plans on panicking and maybe getting black-out drunk later, but for now? For now, she needs to get him back. 

The skeletons that walk past her spare a glance or two in her direction, but they ignore her so involved with the prospect seeing their living loved ones. 

As she and Dante stand at the border, she looks down at the now multi-colored dog. 

“Got anyway to get around this?”

Dante’s tail wags and he trots off, trusting her to follow him. Ophelia glances behind her, but there are so many people going through that all of the agents are distracted. Still she pulls her hood up higher and follows Dante. 

The dog eventually leads her to a hole in a wall. It’ll be a squeeze, but she could fit through it. 

His little wings flap and Dante takes to the air. 

“Show-off,” she calls, rolling her eyes at the answering bark in response. 

Ophelia gets on her knees and begins to crawl through. 

* * *

Miguel’s twenty-first birthday is held in Santa Cecilia. Ophelia makes the trip that is quickly growing familiar to her with him a few days before. Through all the legs of their journey, people recognize Miguel and ask for photos. Ophelia watches, more bemused, as Miguel tries to spend time with each of them. She finds it sweet how much he cares about his fans.

On their final train to the town, Miguel curls an arm around her. Ophelia rests her head on his shoulder as she reads a book. 

“It’s strange,” he says suddenly. 

“What is?” she asks as she turns the page. 

“Papá Héctor was twenty-one when he died.” 

Héctor Rivera is someone that Miguel talks about pretty frequently considering he died long before Miguel was born. Maybe as the two musicians in the family, Miguel feels a spiritual connection with him. 

Either way, Ophelia feels like she knows Papá Héctor already. There’s a mini ofrenda to the man that travels with Miguel when he goes to L.A., on tour, and in his recording studio in Santa Cecilia. It’s a solo picture that was given to the Rivera family in the mania following the de la Cruz controversy. 

He and Miguel have the same ecstatic smile. Miguel talks to the photo sometimes, when he isn’t sure about a song or chord progression. 

She closes her book, shoving her finger into the pages to keep her place. 

“Hard to believe that he was our age when he died,” she whispers against him. “With a child and a wife and everything.” 

“Different times.” 

“I suppose,” agrees Ophelia. “It just seems so tragic.” 

He hums in response. 

“It worked out in the end. I’ve just been thinking about it lately. I still have so much I want to do. He had so much he wanted to do, too.” 

Ophelia tilts her head back up at Miguel, who is backlit by the sun. 

“Existential crisis? For real, I don’t know how to handle those.” 

“No,” he laughs gently.“It just seems…I suppose I’ve just been thinking of the tragedy of it all. Although Papá Héctor is with everyone now. Hopefully. I don’t know. Don’t mind me.” 

Ophelia kisses the hand that is strewn across her shoulder. 

“Don’t shut down.” 

“I’m not. Just…I suppose it hits me how much was taken from him.” 

“Well he got it back in the end. You and your family told the truth.” 

Miguel smiles down at her. Though there is something else in the smile that she can’t quite read. 

“You’re right. Thanks.”

“I don’t know if I helped any.” 

He laughs and squeezes her shoulder.

“You did. Now I’m going to listen to some music. Wanna share buds?”

Ophelia opens her book.

“Bud me up, music man.”

Miguel snorts but hands her an earbud. 

* * *

Ophelia brushes dust off of her torn-up tights and winces at the exposed and slightly scratched skin. If she moves fast enough, then perhaps the denizens of the dead won’t notice it. She tugs up her boots a bit more and pulls down the skirt slightly.

“It’ll work,” she mutters.

Dante watches her. 

“Miguel’s family didn’t cross yet right?” 

A bark from the multi-colored dog answers her. 

“I’m going to assume that’s a yes, Dante. Take me to them.” 

To her surprise, Dante doesn’t move. Instead, he throws his head back and unleashes a howl that seems to echo everywhere. 

In the distance, there was a mighty roar as something on a nearby tower spreads its wings and flies directly toward her and Dante

Not for the first time, Ophelia wonders what the hell she got herself in to.

* * *

Ophelia loves Santa Cecilia, walking through the streets with Miguel or any member of his extended family. She likes listening to the music in Mariachi Plaza and helping ring up totals in the shoe shop. She feels inspired there, choreographs some dances that she is really proud of in the courtyard of the Rivera home, films some fun videos for her channel. 

She also doesn’t mind the little shadows that she acquires there. Miguel’s spirited sister Coco and his youngest cousins trail after her sometimes, demanding her attention and to play with them. Ophelia is happy to oblige. She loved it when there where little ones in her foster homes. She likes the pure and simple honesty of children. 

“Are you and Miguel going to get married?” asks Coco one day as Ophelia works her hair into a braided crown. 

Ophelia chokes for a moment. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Oh yeah. Yeah I’m fine, Coco. Just…surprised by the question. Miguel and I have only been together for a year.” 

“A year and a month,” Coco informs her seriously. Outside, they can hear Miguel do his vocal warm-ups. 

“You’ve been keeping count?” 

“Mamá said that you two were getting married after the first time Miguel mentioned you.” 

Ophelia feels her face color. 

“That’s…well that’s something, huh?” 

“Don’t you want to marry Miguel?” 

“I love Miguel very much. Yeah maybe one day. For now, however, I like what we have. Sometimes things have to stay the same for a while before you want change.” 

Coco looks highly dubious of it, but nods. 

“If you do get married, can I be your flower girl?” 

Ah, there’s the heart of the question. One of Coco’s friends got to be a flower girl recently. The little girl was very keen on doing it herself. 

She finishes Coco’s braided crown and hugs her close. 

“Tell you what, Coco. You get married. I’ll make you a bridesmaid. Much more grown-up and cool. Deal?” 

Coco beams up at her. 

“Deal!” 

The two of them fist bump. Outside Miguel plays the opening strains of “La Bruja”.

* * *

The winged animal turns out to be some kind of fearsome looking giant cat. It towers over her as brightly colored as Dante and regal like royalty. 

Dante prances toward it and flies up to lick its cheek. The giant cat lets out a deep purr and butts up against the dog. 

It then turns its attention to Ophelia, watching her warily. 

She tries very, very hard not to be terrified. 

Miguel’s story hits her again. 

“Pepita?” she asks, trying desperately not to let her voice shake.

The giant cat lets out a rumble of assent.

“Hi.  I’m…I’m Miguel’s girlfriend. He’s been kidnapped. I think it was Ernesto de la Cruz. He told me the whole story about well the last time he was here. I need to go see Mamá Imelda, Papá Héctor, and everyone, okay? Can you help me?” 

Pepita assesses her with frank and large eyes. She then butts her large head against Ophelia’s body with a surprising amount of gentleness. 

“Good kitty,” she whispers. “Very pretty alebrije.” 

Pepita purrs in agreement, bending down for Ophelia to climb on. 

Ophelia rolls her shoulders and scrambles on. 

With a mighty roar, Pepita spreads her wings and takes off. Dante lets out a bark and follows a few minutes later. 

Ophelia buries her fingers in Pepita’s fur and shuts her eyes tight. 

* * *

Ophelia will never be as well-known as Miguel. She’ll always be just his girlfriend to some people. She just goes with it. She knows how hard she works. If those people just think she’s the girlfriend, then whatever. She rarely cares what others think about her. 

She has her own life after all. She films videos for her channel, choreographs dances that rack up millions of views. She’s twenty-one and a success in her own right. She made her success with her own two hands. 

Ophelia rolls her eyes at the snide little comments. The names that she is called for being Miguel’s girlfriend. Like that changes how she feels about him. 

It upsets Miguel though when he hears them. 

“You know they aren’t true, right?” he asks one day, very firmly. 

“The part about me being a famewhore golddigger? Or the stuff about how I’m just a big fake? There’s worse I’m sure. It’s the internet.” 

“It doesn’t bother you?” 

“I’ve been called worse, music man. You know that chunks of my past weren’t happy ones. Those names? It doesn’t bother me much.” 

“Really?” 

“Trust me. The only people who can bother me are the ones I love.” 

“So me?” Miguel asks as he wraps his arms around her. 

“Well yeah. I don’t care what strangers think. I care what you, your family, my friends think.” 

One wrong word or mistake, she could always be out in the cold again. She doesn’t say it out loud. She knows, intellectually, how fucked up she sounds when she says it out loud. 

She’s not shy about sharing her past with Miguel. She’s just shy about showing how much it messed her up with him. 

“What I think of you is that you are amazing,” Miguel says with a smile. He then leans down and gives her a toe-curling amazing kiss. 

* * *

The first time Ophelia meets Papá Héctor face to face goes like that this.

Pepita lands on what looks like the Rivera compound if a bit more colorful and bright. It looks so familiar that Ophelia feels some tension drain out of her, though the worry remains. It always remains.

She pulls down her hood as Pepita lands. She pulls off Miguel’s hoodie. Her arms are still fleshy, so she should be relieved that she’s not cursed, running out a clock. Maybe she is, but she’s tried very hard not to be cursed.

“Pepita!” a cheerful male voice calls. “You took off in a hurry, ey? We’re running late to the living world.”

Pepita lands softly.

“Is there someone on your back?” asks the tall, lanky skeleton with the straw hat. Ophelia recognizes the facial structure.

“Hello?” calls the skeleton. 

“Hi,” Ophelia calls back. She pokes her head over. “My name is Ophelia Smith. I’m Miguel’s girlfr-”

“Ophelia!” the skeleton cheers. “M’ija! Why are you here?” 

It stirs a memory from the year previous, of dark rum, confessions of the soul, and shaking hands as she hits call on her phone. 

“Papá Héctor?” she asks uncertainly. At Mamá Elena’s insistence, she refers to the family members as everyone else in the family usually does. 

“Yes,” the skeleton says happily. “Have you been cursed?” 

He holds out a bony hand, which Ophelia takes allowing herself to be helped down. Héctor is only a little shorter than Miguel, but the eyes are the same. 

“N-No. I…I followed Dante,” she desperately grabs his arms. “You need to help me! _Please.”_  

“Calm down,” he says soothingly. “Tell me what happened.”

“Miguel’s been kidnapped by a skeleton with half of his face crushed. It looked like Ernesto de la Cruz. He told me the story. I…I didn’t know what to do. I had Dante lead me here.” 

Her voice wobbles as she takes his arms, “I need help. He…he needs help.” 

Héctor holds her steady. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. We’re going to help you, huh? Besides the chamaco is clever, he may have saved himself already. Now let’s go inside and gather up the troops, yeah?” 

Ophelia nods. 

“Thank you.” 

“We _are_ your family. We help each other out.”

Héctor leads her inside the house.

It’s funny how safe she feels with his bony hand on her arm. Like she has a better chance of bringing Miguel home. 

* * *

The first actual meeting between Héctor and Ophelia goes like this.

Last year’s Dia de los Muertos, she and Miguel have a fight before he leaves to join his family for the celebration. He always takes a week off to go and be with them during this time of year.

Despite dating for a couple years, despite being at every other family holiday, Ophelia begs off. It leads to a fight between them, a big one before he leaves to catch his flight.

At this point, it’s been three days and it’s just been frosty text messages as they both cool their heels.

Ophelia wishes she can put it into words to him. She knows. She suspects. Miguel has to know how screwed up her mind is at this point.

She loves him. She loves his family. She wants to spend time with them.

But…

“I fucked up, Remus,” she informs the stuffed wolf, which she brought out of the bedroom. She and Miguel moved in together only a couple months ago.

Remus has no answers for her. Ophelia throws her arm across her eyes.

“The holiday is so, so important to them. They hold such reverence and love for those that have died. I am terrified of screwing it up. Because I will somehow. I know it. And then, then I’m just gone. It’s so stupid. I know it’s irrational but I can’t…”

She sighs in frustration as she looks balefully at the stuffed animal.

She’s lost too many families, too many chances. She’s been forgotten and discarded too many times. If she loses Miguel…

She’ll lose Miguel if she keeps pushing it off. She also, however, doesn’t want to mess up. That’s when the small ofrenda catches her eye. Miguel leaves the picture of Héctor during this trip. He doesn’t record and there’s a picture on his family’s ofrenda at the house.

Ophelia glances at Remus and looks at the picture.

The silence feels judging, but maybe that’s her own head. Either way, she decides on a test run: just her and Héctor. From how Miguel talks about him, she thinks he wouldn’t mind too much.

She hopes so anyway.

Ophelia bites her lip and opens her phone. She types in Dia de los Muretos practices into Google. She just wants to know enough that next year (she will say yes) that she doesn’t make a total ass of herself. That she can do the basic things, so she will be able to hear and learn the traditions.

It’s such a stupid (and possibly offensive?) idea, but she does it anyway.

She buys the marigolds and scatters petals from the door to the ofrenda. She cooks albondigas that Mamá Elena taught her last year as an offering. She also buys some alcohol and lights the candles.

She plays some music as well to steady her nerves. It’s midnight when all is said and done.

She pours a glass of rum for her and for him. Ophelia places a full, unopened bottle of a dark rum she likes on the table.

“I think I did this right. What do you think, Héctor? I know you probably prefer tequila. Miguel said that you died from poisoned tequila. Although I don’t know how he knows that exactly, but he’s insistent. That would be enough to turn me off it for a little while.”

She twirls the bottle and places it down with a thump next to his glass.

“It certainly turned him off from most alcohol in general. This is my favorite brand, if you want to try it. Besides it’s good to try new things, right?”

She pauses for a moment, looking at the wide Miguel grin in the picture.

“I know I don’t have claim to your time. And I hate speeches even though I feel like I’m about to give one. I’m Ophelia Smith, Miguel’s girlfriend.”

Ophelia leans back in her chair.

“I don’t know…I don’t know if he’s talked about me to you. I may I hope he has. He loves you so much that I feel like I know you, you know? Who knows, maybe he won’t talk about me this year. We…We had a pretty big fight. Me and Miguel. Maybe you’ll understand my point of view. Miguel said that you were forgotten for a lot of years. I’m sorry to hear that. I know the feeling. The living can forget each other just as easily as they forget the dead.”

Ophelia takes a drink of her rum.

“I was abandoned, grew up in the foster system, bounced around and around. Every time I thought I found _the_ family…it just led to disappointment. With Miguel and his family, they’re a little insane, but it feels like I’ve found it. That whole stupid dream of people who love me. I am petrified of doing something that will screw it up. I’m such a coward. I’ve just been forgotten or pushed aside enough in my life. I don’t know if I can live with another disappointment.”

She gestures to everything, “So that’s why I’m doing all of this, I suppose. Next year, I want to do it. I want to go home with him and celebrate and meet all of you properly. I don’t know if we have yet. I’m not well versed in the rules of death. I want to have those traditions with him. I want to adopt a mess kids who were left alone like I was with him. I want him to sing ‘Remember Me’ to them like you did with Mamá Coco. I want to teach them to dance. I want to bring them up in a house full of music and love where they don’t doubt for one second their place in the world.”

She drains the rest of her glass in one long swallow. It hits the table with a decisive thunk.

“I guess I need to call Miguel first and apologize before anything else, right? I’m planning out our whole lives. I hope that doesn’t make me a giant creep.”

Silence is all that greets her. She glances at the picture for a moment, then two.

“Do you mind staying for just a little while? Just until I finish talking to Miguel, then you can go back to your family.”

She picks up her phone and stares for a long time.

Unbeknownst to her, a skeleton stands behind her chair. His hand hovers over her shoulder.

Her thumb hovers over Miguel’s name for a long, long moment.

She swallows, “Thanks for staying, Papá Héctor.”

The unseen presence behind her just smiles as Ophelia hits the call button.

“Miguel? It’s me. I’m so sorry, music man.”

On the other end of the phone, Miguel makes his own apologies.

* * *

Papá Héctor leads her inside.

“Everyone! We have an emergency!” he calls, which brings forth a lot of people that Ophelia mostly recognizes.

“What’s going on Héctor? Who’s she?” asks, who Ophelia assumes, is Mamá Imelda.

“Don’t you recognize her, mi amor?”

“Hi,” Ophelia says nervously. “I’m Ophelia, Miguel’s girlfriend.”

Everyone immediately talks over each other. 

It just so loud and so many questions, all at once, from so many people in the room. It’s just so much happening all at once. Every second like this is another wasted trying to find Miguel. Ophelia can feel the clock ticking.

So Ophelia sticks her fingers in her mouth and lets out an ear-piercing whistle.

It shuts everyone up, who all look at Mama Imelda a bit nervously. Ophelia bites her lip.

“Sorry. I…Miguel’s been kidnapped. I’m sorry for doing that.”

“For kidnapping him?” asks Mamá Imelda wryly. “Or for bringing everyone to order?”

Ophelia smiles, a bit nervous.

“The second one.”

“Never apologize for keeping your family focused, m'ija,” the matriarch informs her. She pats her bony hand on Ophelia’s made-up face.

“Are you sure it was Ernesto?” asks one of the twins.

Ophelia nods, “Half his skull was all Phantom of the Opera. But yeah I recognized it.”

Imelda orders her family like a general preparing for war, “Julio, Coco and Rosita, I need you three to go and alert the police. Óscar, Felipe and Victoria, you go and spread the word on the street. Miguel is not wearing calavera make-up?”

“No,” confirms Ophelia. “Just me. Little Coco insisted since it was my first time properly celebrating. She’s a hard to say not to.”

“Did my little namesake do that?” Mamá Coco asks. Ophelia bends down so the white braided woman can see better.

“Yes, Mamá Coco. She has a great eye for color.”

“It runs in the family,” replies Mamá Imelda. “Now let’s split up.”

“Where are you, Héctor and Ophelia going?”

“We’re going to take a ride of Pepita. Perhaps she can track Miguel’s scent.”

“I have his hoodie. I mean I was wearing it to hide my hands and arms, but his scent should be there, right?”

“We can always try,” confirms Papá Héctor. “How did you sneak past the border? And get on the marigold bridge?”

“Apparently there’s a hole in a wall that Dante knows about. I crawled through it. Like I said, he led me here without cursing me. I guess no one just…tried walking in.”

The tallest woman, who Ophelia places as Miguel’s Tía Victoria, frowns a little.

“And that was it?”

“I mean yes? There are myths about people who walked into the realm of the dead freely and of their own volition. There has to be some truth to them.”

“Just because it’s the first time someone’s done it, doesn’t meant that it’s impossible,” Mamá Coco says simply. “Come, m’ija. We’ll figure out how to send them home once Miguel is safe.”

Victoria nods and follows the crowd out of the house.

Ophelia twists the new ring on her finger half-heartedly.

“How long have you two been engaged?” asks Héctor. His hand rests on hers, stopping the ring twisting.

Papá Héctor is a lot quicker than people may give him credit for.

“About ten minutes before he was taken,” she answers shakily. “I don’t…I want him with me when we announce it.”

“He will be,” promises Héctor. “Imelda is waiting with Pepita and Dante. Let’s go bring Miguel home, ey?”

Ophelia nods and follows him out the door.

“Just one question,” Imelda calls to her from Pepita. “Why do you think de la Cruz took Miguel?”

Something clicks in Ophelia’s head at that.

“Maybe the album,” she responds.

The matriarch and patriarch of the Rivera clan look at her.

“What album?” they ask. 

* * *

“I’d like to do an album of my Papá Héctor’s songs,” Miguel says in bed one night.

He cuddles her close to his bare chest. His leanly muscled arms wrap around her, making her feel safe and peaceful.

“Wow,” Ophelia replies as she glances over her shoulder. “You suck at pillow talk.”

He snorts at that, kissing her lightly.

“What do you think about it?” Miguel asks. “The only official versions are the ones that de la Cruz performed. I mean others have done covers.”

“But…”

“I just want to keep it in the family. Papá Héctor should have sang those songs. I’ve been wanting to do it for years. Everyone wanted me to prove myself first, get established.”

Ophelia twists in Miguel’s arms, so she can face him better.

“You’re more than established, Miguel. I think people will like it.”

“It will be my first album in a couple years. I’m going to be in Santa Cecilia for a while.”

“I figured,” Ophelia responds.

It’s nothing new. Miguel feels comfortable with the recording studio that he built in his hometown. After his second album a few years ago, he’s recorded a couple of singles, songs for movies and television shows. But nothing as time consuming as an album.

Ophelia is used to being separated from him though. Miguel does tour, after all. 

Miguel kisses her bare shoulder, buries his face close to her neck.

The words tumble out of him as they do when he’s truly nervous.

“I want you to come with me. Stay with me in Santa Cecilia while I record. There’s a room next to my studio with some excellent light. We can clean it out, make into a dance/recording room for your channel. It’ll be awhile. I know you’ll miss your friends and I understand if you want to stay. It’s different from our visits before with my family, more permanent feeling. You are my family though too, Ophelia. I-”

“Miguel.”

“I just miss you. When I’m away. I love you so much that it kind of terrifies-”

“Miguel!”

Miguel stops talking and looks down at her.

“I’m saying yes.”

“You are?”

“I am.”

Ophelia swallows.

“You’re my family too, Miguel.”

Miguel breaks out in the ridiculous smile of his before letting out a joyful grito and tackles her into the mattress. 

* * *

For someone with such stumpy wings, Ophelia observes, Dante can certainly keep up the pace with Pepita. She’s pretty sure that’s not how it works, but this is the Land of the Dead. It probably takes your rules of reality and laughs at them.

“My songs,” Papá Héctor repeats in a happy voice. “Miguel is going to sing an album of my songs.”

“Does he often get like this?” Ophelia asks Mamá Imelda.

“You should have seen him on our wedding day. He kept saying some variation of ‘we just got married’ for most of the night. He’s always been a bit slow to process.”

The matriarch turned her head entirely around to focus on where Ophelia and Héctor were sitting on Pepita’s back. The giant winged cat was flying with a single-minded purpose.

“So you think it was the album?”

“It makes the most sense. I mean people love the songs, but…not many options to listen to them. Not many people want to buy the quote-unquote official versions with de la Cruz singing them. There are cover artists, but well a lot of people have been waiting for this since Miguel’s first album. It was big news when Miguel announced it. What if de la Cruz could have heard a newly dead person talk about it? It could have been a final straw.”

“It does make sense,” Imelda concedes.

“Ernesto is a very jealous person,” Héctor says in a sad sort of tone. Apparently, he’s wrapped his head around Miguel’s latest album. “Insecure as well. It’s part of the reason why he killed me.”

“It sounds like you’ve thought about it a lot.”

“I’ve had a little over a decade to think about, chamaca,” he says with a shrug. “That’s the only reason I could come up with him murdering me.”

Pepita then lets out a roar, which catches her by surprise. Héctor grabs her arm before she totally loses her balance.

“Ay! Don’t fall off there,” Héctor tells her. “We’d like to send you back with Miguel.”

“Pepita has a scent,” calls Imelda. “We’re picking up speed.”

“Where are we going, mi amor?” Héctor asks.

“The Badlands.”

“Well…that doesn’t sound great,” Ophelia mutters in the silence that follows. 

* * *

“You’ve been reading a lot of mythology books lately,” Miguel says one afternoon. He and Ophelia are sitting in her freshly cleaned and set up Santa Cecilia studio. Both of them are sweaty, stripped down to tank tops. Not for the first time, Ophelia is glad for her pixie cut. (Though the urge to shave her head entirely definitely grows stronger in the heat.)

They’re both stretched out on the ground, the afternoon sun flits in. Ophelia cushions her head in her arms.

“Research,” she replies. “I was thinking of doing a series of modern dance interpretations on myths. People liked the ones I did for _Harry Potter_ and Power Rangers. I thought do something a bit classical but with a twist. ‘sides I like mythology.”

“Yeah?”

“It never really goes anywhere.”

“I understand that. There’s a concept album that I’d like to do,” Miguel says. He gets a far off look in his eye for a moment.

“Well you can’t just leave me hanging.”

“Let me finish this album first, querida. Otherwise I’ll get wrapped up in this one and we’ll be here even longer.”

“ _Miguel_ …" 

“You sound like Coco when you say that. Besides it’s something that happened to me when I younger. And it sounds crazy.”

“Well now I want to know. Tell the story, please?”

Miguel just smiles and kisses her.

“Ask me that three more times before the Dia de los Muertos and I’ll tell you. Not in a row. Not in the same day. But you need to be really sure that you want to hear it.”

It was such a bizarre request that she nods in agreement.

“You’re starting to sound like a fairytale,” she murmurs. “If I ask you to tell me the story three more times after today, then are you going to disappear?” 

Miguel just smiles, one dimple flashing. 

“No. I’ll be right here. I promise.”

* * *

“The Badlands are the place where no soul treads,” Héctor informs her with a 'spooky' voice. “You must truly want your Final Death to even think about it. Most don’t return when they enter. Those that do…are changed.”

He then shrugs, returning to a normal tone of voice.

“Or at least that’s what the stories say. Rumor works just as well here as it does everywhere eles”

“And he took Miguel there? What’s going to happen to him?”

At the distress in her voice, Dante lands next to Ophelia and nuzzles her face. Unconsciously, she pulls the dog closer.

“No living soul has been there,” Imelda says, urging Pepita forward. “So we cannot say what will happen to him. Hopefully the police will meet us there with the rest of the family.”

“And if not?”

“Then we still go and save Miguel.”

Ophelia hugs Dante tighter, watching as over the horizon as vast desert appears at the edges of the brightly light City of the Dead. 

* * *

The second time she asks Miguel to tell her the story is because Mamá Elena told Ophelia her perspective of the same night. She’s teaching Ophelia how to make her tamales. The atmosphere is warm and comforting.

“Years ago, I would have been horrified by you,” Mamá Elena informs her in that frank way. “By Miguel playing music for a living and dating a dancer.”

“Why?”

“Miguelito didn’t tell you about the music ban?”

“He mentioned that you weren’t supportive of his dreams at first.”

“Bah! That boy puts it mildly. He forgives so easily, that tender heart. He announces to us that he will be a musician. We did not take it well. I smashed a guitar he made.”

“Why?”

“Music was banned for generations in the Rivera family. We thought it was because Papá Héctor abandoned his family. He left, but he tried to come home. We…”

She takes a breath.

“There was a big fight. Miguel runs off. He doesn’t come back until morning with a guitar. Even though we looked all night for him. We were convinced he somehow left town.”

Ophelia pauses in her work to look at Mamá Elena.

“He didn’t?”

“No. He comes running back with a guitar and goes to see Mamá. He sings to her and…it brought her back. She remembered. He could do it with that song of her father’s, her lullaby.”

“And music came to the family?”

“It is in the blood,” the elder woman says simply. “Plus I almost lost my grandson that night due to stubbornness. I was not…we were not going to let it happen twice. But ay if I was told my Miguelito would bring home a dancer.”

“Not the top of the list?”

The old woman just smiles.

“Very bottom. It all worked out. Miguel brings back music. Mamá’s life is happy in those final months. We have a second legacy to the Rivera name. The house is…livelier with music.”

“That’s good to hear,” Ophelia says. “I don’t think I would like a future when we haven’t met Mamá Elena.”

The old woman smiles at her and pats her cheek, “You? You are a good girl. Now let us finish our cooking lesson.”

“It does smell good in her,” Miguel pokes his head through the open window. “Oh! Are those tamales, Abeulita?”

“Speak of the devil,” Ophelia calls. “We were talking about you.”

“Whatever it is. I didn’t do it.”

Mamá Elena raises an eyebrow and begins to bend down for her sandal.

“And why would say that, Miguel?”

Miguel coughs and tries to change the subject. He rubs his arm.

“No reason.”

His grandmother doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she does stop reaching down for her weapon of choice. Ophelia gives her boyfriend a break.

“Mamá Elena was telling me about the time you vanished. Can I hear the other side of the story?”

Miguel just smiles and takes a fresh tamale.

“Ask me two more times and find out.”

Ophelia raises an eyebrow, “Halfway there.”

“Whooooa livin’ on a prayer,” sings Miguel into her ear.

“You’re such a dork.” 

* * *

The Badlands are pretty much as advertised, in Ophelia’s opinion. It’s a desolated area that reminds her more of an apocalyptic wasteland than anything else. 

Pepita touches down a little bit on the inside of the desert. Dante face plants into the ground and comes up sniffing.

“We must be close,” Mamá Imelda says.

“How can you tell?” Ophelia asks as she looks around. “Not that I’m not doubting you, Mamá Imelda. It’s just uh…”

“Very hard to tell, mi amor,” Héctor cuts in genially.

Ophelia isn’t sure if he’s being her wingman on purpose or not to make sure she doesn’t embarrass herself, but she’s grateful for it. After they save Miguel, she’s going to talk to Héctor to see if he wants anything special on the ofrenda. She’ll make sure for the rest of her life that he gets it.

Almost as if to answer, Pepita and Dante let out a breath. Blurry and bright shoeprints, like someone had been dragged, appears.

“They can do that?!” Héctor exclaims.

“Did I not tell you that?” Mamá Imelda asks. “Now stay on Pepita.”

Dante barks and takes off running with Pepita close behind.

* * *

The third time that Ophelia asks about the story, she’s rehearsing.

Miguel is in his soundproofed studio next door recording. She, meanwhile, has her wireless earbuds firmly in working on her latest routine for her channel. Ophelia is ninety-five percent certain that she has the choreography down that she wants.

Even though she’s been rehearsing for about two and a half hours, she plans on a full run-through before lunch.

She turns off her buds and connects her phone to her speaker. Miguel insisted that she act normally as ever, even though he was recording next door. Even proving to her that he will not be able to hear if she had a speaker on.

Ophelia licks her lips and hits play. She stands next to an unseen partner. This requires some precise control on her part in her muscles, not to fall. Technically, she doesn’t the work and support for two.

_“I am not the only traveler, who has not repaid his debt,_ ” croons the singer.

With that, she breaks her extended pose and gives herself over to the music. Miguel pours his emotion and story in his voice. She tells her through her body.

Her body was the one thing in the world that was always hers. No one owns it but _her_. She knows what she is capable of and what she can do.

She’s so wrapped up in the song that she doesn’t hear the door click open.

Ophelia doesn’t see Miguel until she hits her final pose as the voice ends and music fades away. When he applauds though, she startles and stumbles.

“Miguel!”

“I’m sorry,” he cries although a smile lurks in the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t know you got surprised like, querida.”

Miguel enters the room, “It’s a beautiful routine.”

“I just figured it out. Let me rehearse it some more before you call it beautiful.”

He nods, ambling over.

“I think I did a cover of that song.”

Ophelia gets herself in a sitting position. It was good that her routine ended with her on the floor.

“You did. It was a bonus track.”

“You know my catalogue better than I do.”

“Not as well as Rosa,” Ophelia responds. She takes Miguel’s offered hand and stands up.

“Well Rosa takes after our Tía Victoria. It’s not that much of a surprise.”

He hands her water bottle, which earns him a kiss.

“I thought you were recording.”

“We’ve wrapped up so the musicians can go and have lunch. Are you done?”

“For now,” she agrees, grabbing her towel to dry off her sweat. “Let me get my shirt. I don’t think Mamá Elena will appreciate me coming in with my sports bra as my top.”

“She wouldn’t, but it’s not a bad sight.”

Ophelia throws her towel at Miguel’s face, grabbing the spare deodorant she keeps at the studio and puts it on. She tugs on her favorite sweatshirt that she found in a consignment shop. It’s day-glo eighties, so bright that it’ll hurt your eyes. She adores it more than she can say, it falls off her shoulders and is light in the heat.

“Ready?” Miguel asks with his arms crossed. His guitar is slung across his back, a perfectly made copy of his Papá Héctor’s guitar that hangs in the small museum next to the Rivera shop. It’s Miguel’s signature instrument, associated with the Rivera family more than de la Cruz.

She stares at the guitar for a moment. In all their time dating and living together, she never really asked how he pieced everything together.

“Something wrong?” Miguel asks.

He offers her his arm, which she takes with a roll of her eyes. They close and lock the door behind them.

“I just realized something. You never told me how you figured it out.”

“Figured out what?” Miguel asks as they step into the afternoon sunshine. A few people on the street call out greetings, an awed tour group snaps a couple of photos before being ushered along.

“About your family and de la Cruz, how did you figure out about Papá Héctor?”

Miguel smiles as they stop in front of the Rivera zapateria.

“Ask me one more time,” he declares. “And I’ll tell you.”

“Must be a hell of a story, music man.”

“One of the best,” he promises opening the door for her. 

* * *

The drag marks disappear in the middle of the sand. Neither Pepita or Dante can make them appear again.

Ophelia tries not to assume the worst. She forces herself not to wonder about what happens if you die in the Land of the Dead.

Instead, she disembarks from Pepita with Héctor and Imelda. The three of them stand over where the drag marks end.

“They can’t have just vanished,” Mamá Imelda snaps angrily, frustrated with the situation more than anything.

“I don’t think that they did, mi vida,” Papá Héctor exclaims after a minute. “I heard stories about this from mi familia in Shantytown passed down to them passed down to me. A long, long time ago, some Forgotten would live in the Badlands. They would have secret passages entrances. It’s why I take the stories with a grain of salt.”

Imelda and Ophelia share a look. Héctor kneels down and brushes the sand, revealing a trap door.

“Okay,” Ophelia says. “That’s pretty impressive.”

Pepita breathes on the door and it glows. Héctor pulls up the rope to reveal…darkness.

“I think Pepita is too big for this,” Imelda grouses.

“We have Dante,” Ophelia counters. “He led me here. He loves Miguel. He’ll get us there.”

They all turn to look at the dog, who is chewing on his leg. She could feel the skepticism of Miguel’s great-great grandparents.

“He will,” she presses. “Pepita should get the police and everyone else here.”

Imelda nods and turns to her alebrije.

“Pepita, I need you to find Coco with the police and then go and Victoria. Lead them here.”

Pepita purrs and butts up against Imelda in assent. She then spreads her wings and takes off into the sky.

The remaining four peers down at the passageway. Ophelia digs out her cellphone and turns on her flashlight function, relieved at seeing a ladder.

“Let’s hurry,” Imelda announces as she begins her descent on the ladder.

* * *

The final time she asks the question and when he tells her the story begins with a shoe. Technically, it’s a pair of shoes.

Miguel did not expect his first album to be so big. He did not expect his career to take off like it did. So he learned the family trade. He’s not the best in the family, his shoes aren’t the prettiest, but he knows how to make them.

Rivera shoes are made to last. Much like the family, the shoes are survivors and they thrive. A family tradition, according to Tía Carmen, is that they make shoes for those they love.

“It’s a promise,” she tells Ophelia over a glass of wine. “Making a shoe takes time. It says I put in the work because I love you.”

“Should I be worried that Miguel hasn’t made me a pair yet?” she asks only half-jokingly.

“I wouldn’t worry.” 

Ophelia’s birthday has never been a big affair in her life.

“I’m not even sure it is my birthday. It’s my founding day if you want to be technical,” she tells Miguel, the night before.

“Either way, we’re celebrating it,” Miguel insists. “It will be low-key. I promise, mi amor.”

Ophelia has seen low-key in the Rivera household. It is not low-key.

“They’re just excited. You deserve to have a fuss made over you.”

“Okay,” Ophelia says. “Okay. I’m not going to win the argument.”

“I got a lot of Rivera stubbornness and sneakiness,” Miguel admits. “And the rest of the family keeps up pretty well too.”

The party is as low-key as the Rivera's came make, but it's fun and full. There’s shouting and laughter and good food and music in the air. Miguel plays with the local musicians, switching songs on a moment’s notice.

Ophelia meanwhile is given hugs and kisses and well wishes. She’s dizzy and giddy with the warmth of the people surrounding her, the swell of emotion. Inside her heart, she so desperately tries to remember every moment.

This is what being in a family has to feel like.

She wouldn’t know, but it’s what she imagines. She what she feels underneath her breast. Staying with Miguel in Santa Cecilia as he records is the best decision she’s ever made.

It’s no longer Miguel’s home, but her home too. She’s breathless at this gift he has given her, at the realization. She’s known for some time she wanted a life with this man.

But he gave her a home too, freely and happily.

That’s the best birthday present anyone could give her.

The party still goes on when Miguel grabs her hand and they sneak off. He has a bag slung over his shoulder. It seems like the whole town is at the party. As they walk through the darkened streets, it certainly seems like it.

“Did I ever thank you?” she asks. She’s a little tipsy, drunk enough that her lips are loose.

“For what?”

“Bringing me into your home, your family.”

“Querida, I love you. It’s part of the deal.”

“I just…I always wanted this. And I have it. It’s because of you.”

Miguel kisses her tenderly.

“Not just me.”

She looks down, lacing her fingers in his.

“So where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” Miguel said with a smile. “Trust me?”

Eventually, he leads her to the graveyard.

“Ah how romantic. A reminder of my mortality on my twenty-third birthday,” she deadpans.

In the light of the full moon, Miguel’s eyes sparkle. He pushes open the door and leads her inside. They walk to where Miguel’s family is buried, he touches his Mamá Coco’s gravestone.

“When my Mamá Coco fell in love with Papá Julio, she made him a pair of boots. His first really good pair of shoes that he made were for her. Since then, we exchange shoes to those we love. Making shoes, however, especially types you’re unfamiliar with take time. Still it feels right to give you these here since they started the tradition.”

Miguel opens his bag and hands her a tissue wrapped present.

The paper tears easily in her hands, revealing a pair of dance shoes.

She never thought that she would cry over a pair of shoes before. Yet here she was in the moonlight of the graveyard of Santa Cecilia crying over a pair that her boyfriend made her.

Miguel wipes her tears with his fingers.

“You like them?”

She throws her arms around him, kissing him breathless.

“You’re amazing,” Ophelia says seriously.

“So are you, querida. You’ve just…you saw me. Not the famous Miguel Rivera, just…me. I mean at first you did but by the end of that first night. I knew. I knew that I wanted to share everything with you.”

He kisses her and presses his forehead against hers.

“Ask me again.”

She looks up at him.

“What?”

“Ask me to tell you the story,” he says.

Ophelia licks her lips and nods, “Can you tell me the story, music man?”

Miguel smiles softly.

“When I was twelve years old, I wanted nothing more in this life to be a musician like my hero Ernesto de la Cruz…”

With only the dead as their company, he tells her a story straight out of some kind of fairytale. 

* * *

Ophelia’s phone and, apparently, Dante’s nose are the only lights in the tunnel. She certainly doesn’t feel like she’s in a fairytale right now.

Correction, she doesn’t feel like in a Disney fairytale.

She feels perfectly at home in a Brothers Grimm style one though. It’s funny because she preferred those growing up.

“I really hope birds don’t peck out my eyes,” she half-heartedly mutters under her breath.

Héctor looks at her a bit oddly. She waves him off, following Imelda who has taken the lead behind Dante.

Ophelia glances at the tunnels rocky walls. Not for the first time wondering how a cave system can be underneath a desert, but the Land of the Dead probably functions on Wonderland logic to some extent.

“We’ve been walking too long,” Imelda says, eyes on the glowing trail of dragged feet.

“All we can do is follow the trail,” Héctor replies.

Dante then suddenly stops.

All them of them crash into each other.

“Dante,” begins Ophelia, but she stops.

Because she can hear a voice.

“You ruined everything!” screamed a deep voice full of bombast and rage. It’s so close that it echoes painfully in Ophelia’s ears. “My reputation, my music, my memory!”

“Ernesto,” Héctor whispers. 

* * *

When Ophelia was a little girl, she was a believer.

She believed that this family would be the one to adopt her. She believed that somehow, someday, a long-lost relative would step forward. That they would just see her and know. She believed in fairytales and happily ever after. Oh, she believed that someday she would be remembered.

Someone would see her and say to themselves, “I know you. I see you. I won’t forget you or leave you behind.”

She grew up. Her brief childhood bled into her becoming a very short adult at a young age.

If no one will remember her, if no one will save her, then she will do it herself.

Her happily ever after would be earned by sweat on her brow and the blood on her feet. She made a living, made a life.

Miguel Rivera comes into the picture with his one-dimple smile and his irrepressible kindness. He makes her feel seen and it makes her feel naked. He brings her into his family and she stands at the door. She waits and waits and waits for it to blow away. She tells herself she fell in love too easily, too fast, too everything.

It won’t. She didn’t.

He gives her shoes on her birthday. Dance shoes that she will wear for years and years. Dance shoes that will be seen by millions and millions of people. He gives her a promise.

He makes a believer again as he talks about the Land of the Dead and a riot of color, lifting of curse and bringing back a song. He talks of bringing a dead man back to life. He talks of hope and faith and belief.

He talks of love: for family, for another, for friendship.

After he tells her the story, he looks at her cautiously. Like he’s the one who is scared she’ll disappear, run into the black and never come back to him.

“Do you believe me?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. 

* * *

They creep toward the opening of a cavern.

It’s dark, dank and the perfect setting for a villain lair. She’s actually pretty sure she’s saw this set-up in a de la Cruz movie one of her foster families had.

“He was always so dramatic,” Imelda whispers.

Well…

It is certainly dramatic.

Ernesto de la Cruz paces back in forth in front of a passed out (or faking) Miguel. He was wearing the same ragged cloak that he had kidnapped Miguel in. (It made sense. It had only been…an hour? Two hours? Ophelia didn’t know.)

“But you didn’t care about that, did you?” the former star growls at Miguel. “No all you cared about was _the truth_ and _family_. Now, now I am branded and wanted. Look at my bones!”

He throws off his gloves, revealing dark red staining his bones. Miguel’s eyes are firmly close. So it clearly doesn’t matter if his audience is conscious or not.

Mamá Imelda and Papá Héctor stiffen next to her.

“What does that mean?” Ophelia whispers.

“This place runs on memories,” Héctor tells her. “Those well-remembered have the pristine bones. Those who are being forgotten turn yellow and brittle. Those…those who are remembered for some truly heinous crimes? Their bones turn red, especially on their hands.”

“Blood on their hands,” she grabs Héctor’s hand. “We need to get Miguel.”

Imelda says firmly, “Héctor and I will distract him. You free Miguel.”

Ophelia nods. Héctor rolls his shoulders and takes off one of his arms. He aims it like an arrow.

Imelda bends down and takes off her boot. 

* * *

“Done!” declares Coco, putting down her brush. “You look so pretty, Ophelia!”

The ten-year-old claps her hands together in delight. A couple of episodes of _Face Off_ when she visited her and Miguel in L.A., Coco had a dream of becoming the best make-up artist the world has ever seen.

And? She was pretty good too. Miguel showed her pictures of the calavera that she did for various family members last year. Her parents were willing so long as she doesn’t wear actual make-up until she was sixteen.

“I need to see a mirror first,” she teases. “Unless you want me to feel it out.”

“No! No touching,” the make-up artist insists.

Coco passes her the mirror with a big smile. Ophelia takes a look at her reflection. At the plums and lavenders and robin’s egg blues, Coco used to for her make-up. She turns her face, watching as the stick-on gems catch in the light.

“Well?”

“It looks beautiful, Coco. You have a great eye for color! Everything is so symmetrical, too.”

Coco throws her arms around Ophelia in a hug.

“I’m so glad you like it.”

Ophelia gently presses a kiss to Coco’s forehead.

“Do you need help with yours, Coco?”

The girl shakes her head and smiles up at Ophelia.

“No! But I think you should go see Miguel.”

“Any reasons why?”

“Cause he loves you? And I’m supposed to get you to go see him.”

Coco claps her hand over her mouth.

“I shouldn’t have said that. Don’t tell Miguel that I did.”

Ophelia raises an eyebrow

“So I’m supposed to go see him, huh?”

She nods.

“Okay. I won’t tell, Coco. Now go and get ready yourself.”

Coco nods eagerly. Ophelia stands and brushes off her tights, straightens her skirt.

She opens the door to Coco’s room and heads down to meet Miguel.

* * *

Taking down de la Cruz is almost laughably easy.

Mamá Imelda could have been a world-famous pitcher given the speed and accuracy which she throws her boot at de la Cruz’s head. It pops off, a couple of fragments from his crushed side sprinkling on the ground.

Héctor’s arm lands near him, scuttling over like Thing from _The Addams Family_. It pokes out Ernesto’s eyes, temporarily blinding him.

“Ernesto!” Imelda screams. “How dare you steal our grandson!”

His body stumbles trying to get to his thrown head, but Papá Héctor beats him to it. He reattaches his arm and scoops up the head. With a firm punch to de la Cruz’s jaw, Héctor has the man’s eyes back into his skull.

“Hello, old friend,” he says in a very tense and quiet way.

With Ernesto thoroughly distracted, Ophelia quickly sneaks over to where Miguel sits tied a rickety chair.

“Miguel?” she whispers.

Brown eyes snap open and looks at her.

“Ophelia,” he breathes. “Hey.”

“So you were faking, huh?”

“I much prefer to be unconscious than give him an actual audience,” Miguel snorts. “Plus if he was going to kidnap me, then he was going to drag me here. I was cutting through the bindings. There was a rock.”

Ophelia checks the ropes.

“You’re about halfway through.”

“It takes longer than it does in the movies. Plus, I had to do it while pretending to be unconscious. Give me a break.”

Ophelia snorts and begins untying the ropes. She and Miguel both hear a crash and look up.

In the distance, Mamá Imelda smacks de la Cruz’s body with her reclaimed boot while Papá Héctor cheers her on. He cradles Ernesto’s head under his arm like a futbol.

“He was planning to wait out the clock, keep me hidden until sunrise. Far as I can tell though, my body’s not turning into a skeleton. So who knows what’ll happen?” Miguel tells her simply. He rubs his free wrists, which are red with rope burn. “Guess he didn’t take how clever you are into account? How did you get here?”

“Dante showed me the way. Spirit guide?” 

Miguel stares at her with wide eyes, “You mean I could have come and visited my family years ago without being cursed?!”

“Apparently.”

“I’m so stupid!” Miguel cries, smacking his head to his forehead.

She tips up Miguel’s chin and kisses him.

“You’re a bit slow on the uptake. It’s cute.”

Miguel smiles at her as she sets about untying his legs.

“So you’ve met my family, huh?”

“Most of them very briefly. We were trying to save you.”

Now that Miguel was here and alive and safe.

Her hands start to shake.

“Hey. Hey, querida. I’m okay. We’re okay.”

He gently rests his hands on her shaking ones.

“We’re okay.”

He rests his head against hers.

“We’re okay,” she repeats.

“That’s right.”

She nods and stands up with him.

“You know this isn’t how I planned the night we got engage to go,” Miguel says.

“Well it’s certainly one for the ages.”

“Hey! Chamaco!”

Miguel looks over her shoulders and a grin blooms on his face.

* * *

The sunset paints the sky purples and blues and pinks. Around them the people of Santa Cecilia sing and remember their dead. The lively colors and bright atmosphere make an inviting picture. The scent of the cempazúchitl petals hang in the air mingling with scent of different foods.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful skull,” Miguel tells her as they walk through the town. He looks a little flustered for some reason. There’s a flush to his cheek and he keeps looking sideways at her.

Ophelia hopes he isn’t getting sick. She loops her arm through his. 

“You’re such a dork,” she informs him as a couple of children race past her.

“I’m the dork who loves you. Now move. We have a lot of things to do.”

“I thought those things happen at your house first.”

“We have a very important thing to handle first. It’s a secret mission.”

He flashes her a nervous sort of smile, free hand fluttering to the pocket of his hoodie.

Miguel leads her through the town and up a nearby hill. By the time they reach their destination, lights are flickering down in Santa Cecilia. Against the fading colors of the sunset, it’s one of the loveliest sights Ophelia has ever seen.

The breeze ruffles her hair. She rubs her arms. A moment later, Miguel has his hoodie draped around her.

“Best view in town,” Miguel tells her. “When I was a teenager, I would come here toward the end of the night and play for my ancestors.”

Ophelia stands for a moment letting the sight wash over her.

“It’s beautiful. And that’s why you’ve brought me here?”

Miguel doesn’t answer.

“Miguel?” she calls, looking over her shoulder.

She bites back a gasp.

Miguel kneels before her, holding open a ring box. Nestled in there is a slim band with an opal in the center, colors shimmering in the moonlight.

“Ophelia Smith,” he says almost shyly. “I was going to do a big speech. Everything sounded so…rehearsed. So I’ll keep it short.”

He breathes deeply.

“Will you marry me?”

Ophelia lets out a shaky breath, desperately trying not to cry. She was not going to ruin Coco’s hard work.

“Yes. Yes. Of course, music man.”

Miguel immediately brightens. She takes the ring and shoves it onto her finger. He picks her up and spins around, a joyful grito bursting forth from his throat.

The two of them kiss.

It all feels pretty perfect.

Until about ten minutes later when Miguel is kidnapped by a dead man bent on revenge, but hey these things happen apparently. 

* * *

Watching Mamá Imelda lead Ernesto’s headless body by a rope is certainly one of the stranger sights of the night for Ophelia. When she told Miguel that Imelda looked like Michonne later, he almost choked on his tres leches cake.

Miguel and Papá Héctor take up the rear. Both of them bask in the other’s presence, talking about everything. From Miguel’s newest album to Héctor’s new hobby of knitting, Ophelia can’t help but smile at the sight.

“It’s a shame they never met in life,” she says to Mamá Imelda. “Well when they both were alive.”

“Miguel is so much like him,” the older woman agrees. “Right down to the same mop of hair.”

Ophelia snorts.

“I think he has your determination and aim.”

“My aim?”

“Miguel’s favorite way of relaxing is doing trick shots with his soc-sorry-futbol. Trust me. He has your aim.”

Imelda chuckles at that. Ophelia smiles, relaxing. Behind them, Miguel and Héctor both unleash some pretty joyous gritos. 

Why shouldn’t she relax? Miguel is safe. He gets to see that everything worked out in the end before he is well and truly dead. They are in the confront of family.

Everything is good.

Dante’s nose lights the way.

“I see you are wearing a ring,” Imelda says suddenly. “Any reason why you did not mention that?”

“I wanted Miguel with me,” she pauses. “I wanted to make sure he was coming home.”

Imelda rests her hand on Ophelia’s shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“That is a feeling that I understand all too well.”

Ophelia laughs a little.

“He is a good boy,” Imelda informs her. “Take good care of him.”

“We’ll take care of each other.”

Behind them, Miguel and Héctor begin to sing. 

* * *

Things go pretty quickly when the motley group arrives at the trap door. The police and the rest of the Rivera family stand with Pepita as Miguel and Ophelia climb through the opening.

“Mamá Imelda and Papá Héctor have Ernesto’s body and head,” Miguel informs the police.

“Respectively,” adds Ophelia.

“We’ll need your statements before you’re sent back to the Land of the Living,” informs someone who Ophelia assumes is a detective. “Along with how you got into the Land of the Dead, Senorita.”

“I followed Dante,” she tells him. “I also had a little faith and trust.”

“And pixie dust?” Miguel asks with a grin.

“I can’t believe I agreed to marry you.”

Miguel’s grin grows wider, eyes alight with glee.

“No take backs.”

“Like I would ever, music man. But first, how about you go see your family?”

“They’re your family too,” he informs her. 

Miguel looks up and smiles at the group of skeletons awaiting them, especially the one in white braids.

“Mamá Coco,” he whispers almost reverently.

“Miguel,” she says, arms open wide. “Come here and give me a hug.”

Miguel doesn’t need to be told twice. Running and throwing his arms around the small old woman, he then lifts her up and spins her around.

“He does take after you,” Imelda informs Héctor with a fond tone.

“Ophelia,” calls Miguel brightly. “Come and meet everyone when my life isn’t on the line.”

Ophelia walks forward, lacing her fingers through Miguel’s.

“Everyone this is Ophelia. We’re getting married.”

It descends into chaos, but the happy sort of chaos. As she is passed around from family member to family member showing her ring, telling their story, Ophelia wonders if there is a way for the dead to visit outside of Dia de los Muertos. 

* * *

It will be a story told in the Rivera family for generations to come. How Miguel and Ophelia disappeared for several hours on Dia de los Muerto, returning newly engaged and slightly disheveled.

The adults would laugh, chuckling over young love. Miguel plays it up slightly with over the top eyebrow waggles while Ophelia rolls her eyes.

The celebrations will last until Dawn’s rosy fingers begin to paint the sky. Living and dead relatives toast the new couple with music swelling around them.

They do, however, insist on a wedding on October 30th the next year in Santa Cecilia. (Apparently it was easier to let relatives cross the marigold bridge closer to Dia de los Muertos. Not that either would say it out loud.) 

It’s a beautiful ceremony when it happens. The living and dead gather to celebrate the happy occasions. The youngest bridesmaid Coco will spin herself dizzy. The bride and groom perform “Un Poco Loco” for the gathered friends and family. The bride’s skirts flaring around her as her husband plays his great-great grandfather’s guitar.

Music has returned. A family is made. They don’t live happily ever after, but they do live happily.

That’s enough. That is always enough.  

**Author's Note:**

> In case you were wondering, Miguel's album of Héctor's songs did become really big. He refuses to cover "Remember Me" though to respect Héctor's wishes. (He does, however, sing it to his own mess of children, all adopted.) 
> 
> The thing about Ophelia's last name being assigned by a judge is true, based on my research. In the U.S., judge's assign last names to abandoned children based on popularity. Since over 10 million people have the last name Smith, it was a likely choice. 
> 
> Miguel making her shoes comes the novelization, Abeulita Elena wins over her husband with her boots. (Also there was a meta on Tumblr that I read based on it, but can't quite find it.) The shoes he gives her are contemporary dance shoes, which look like half a shoe so was a bit of struggle. Bless the boy, he did it. 
> 
> The bones stained red is totally mine. I thought about those who are remembered but for generally bad things. Blood on the hands and everything, so they're marked in life by those memories. 
> 
> The song Ophelia dances to is "The Night We Met" by Lord Huron which has been one of my favorites. "La Bruja" is a Mexican folk song.
> 
> I think that covers everything. If you want to scream about _Coco_ with me, then say hi on my [Tumblr ](http://hopenight.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
